


Great and Ghastly

by victorianvirgil



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Jack the Ripper AU, M/M, Prinxiety - Freeform, Victorian England AU, extra extra jack the ripper au read all about it, implied logicality if you squint ig, implied moceit, mentioned intrulogical, nor for the faint of heart, one of the main 6 is the killer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:34:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23251792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorianvirgil/pseuds/victorianvirgil
Summary: Virgil Tabram has lived in London all his life and he’s seen more than most. But after a witnessing a murder eerily similar to that of his mother, Virgil knows that he cannot stay silent and continue to let sex workers die while the authorities do nothing.And with the help of Detective Logan Droit, Jack the Ripper doesn’t have a chance.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders
Comments: 52
Kudos: 66





	1. Light and Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the beginning of the end for Virgil Tabram, all because he wound up at the wrong place at the wrong time.

_Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l’admire_

-

_Thursday, August 30, 1888 - 5:10 p.m._

London was a temperate city, weather never too extreme one way or another. Its infamous dull-gray clouds always lurked above, threatening to dampen the metropolis below in a light drizzle that was more of a nuisance than anything.

But for one reason or another, the world adored the strikingly average city, or rather, found that the true beauty resided in the people. The rich owned breathtaking gowns and waistcoats spun from the most dazzling fabrics that money could buy, while the eyes of the poor shone even brighter than any of their jewels―optimism twinkling in their gem-like eyes as they hoped and prayed for a better future.

Somewhere in between these two classes dwelled Virgil Tabram, stepping out of the front door from the Central News Agency building after a long day.

As was expected, the sky was overcast as Virgil walked down the cobblestone road, tugging at his sleeves to unstick the thin fabric from his skin. It was hot and the street vendors knew it, calling out to everyone that passed by to look at their carts. Virgil only stopped at a fruit cart, the vendor a middle-class woman barely able to see him over his pile, and grabbed an apple, flipping her a penny before stepping back out into the street.

He hadn’t noticed the carriage rounding the corner, horses’ hooves clopping like drums announcing the Queen of England. Most had moved out of the way but Virgil, with his newspaper cap down over his eyes and rubbing his apple against the bottom of his shirt, had not.

The horses recoiled with a whine as the driver yanked at their reigns, Virgil hardly faltering as curses were shouted his way. Continuing on as if nothing had happened.

Just like he had done since the death of his mom. Three weeks of trudging through the streets as a shadow of the man he had once been.

Otherwise, the day was as normal as they came. The streets bustled with life and grief’s hold on Virgil refused to slip even when catching the eye of a particularly dashing fellow who had smiled his way.

His father had told him he would feel better with time, that the only reason he still mourned was because he was still a child. That when he turned nineteen in a few months, he’d be much more worried about starting a new family rather than grieving his old one.

So Virgil didn’t talk to Henry Tabram anymore; his mother the only person in all of London that he wanted to discuss his feelings with. Could discuss his feelings with.

It wasn’t until a football was kicked his way did Virgil bother to look up from his worn-leather shoes, gaze resting on a poor figure who must’ve lived in a slum. A group of boys had been playing in the road and the smallest of them had approached. His secondhand shirt and trousers that barely reached his wrists and ankles were coated in dirt and grime, but he seemed happy with his hands outstretched as he looked up at Virgil without a care in the world. Only wanting his ball and to play with his friends.

“Thanks, mister,” the boy laughed after Virgil nudged the ball his way with the toe of his left foot, rounding the group of boys playing in the street so as to not disrupt their game.

Virgil had almost forgotten what it was like to be happy, unlocking the front door to his flat and wondering if he could still even smile like those boys in the street.

The joy that had once illuminated Virgil’s one-room flat had long since burned out, grief and decay decorating the unpainted walls. His mother―looking down on him, hopefully―must’ve been disgusted by the state of her old home that she had left in her son’s care. 

It was dirt cheap and sparsely decorated but it was a home, regardless of its condition or the fact that Virgil was alone.

Across the room and just beside the stiff mattress, home to more fleas than Virgil could count in a lifetime, was a full-length mirror. It was stained and covered by a thin layer of grime from years of neglect, but it was his mother’s and he couldn’t bear to part with it. Not that he had the funds for a new one anyway.

Stopping before it, Virgil studied the surprisingly dark figure staring back at him. He was pale, sure, but his mother’s death tarnished his silver eyes to a dull metal and hovered over his head like a malicious storm cloud. As if he and London were one in the same: dark and dreary from days without a sliver of sunshine. He tried to smile, attempted to mimic the young boy he had seen in the street, but he could conjure up nothing more than a grimace. As was expected from a boy born out of wedlock to a paying man and a prostitute. The mirror said it all.

Tucked into the top corner of the frame was a torn piece of newspaper with an illustration of his mother, his beautiful mother. _The Horrible and Mysterious Murder at George’s Yard, Whitechapel Road._ Horrible indeed. Blood surrounded her head like a halo, arms outstretched as if she knew it were her final moments and wanted to give her son one last hug.

She loved him even in her death, and it was now up to Virgil to avenge his mother by killing the sick bastard that authorities had no motivation to find because Martha Tabram had been a sex worker. Not a woman they considered of value. But unlike the coppers, Virgil would stop at nothing to see that the man that had slit his mother’s throat was where he belonged.

In Hell, and nothing short of it.

-

The bar Virgil found himself in an hour later was dark as night, light and shadows performing a hypnotizing dance that coaxed guests towards one another.

Virgil knew better than to visit Spitalfields, especially since he had been to better bars with far better company, but he hadn’t been in the mood to walk or hitch a ride across town. He only wanted a drink, so this one would do. Besides, the owner, Patton Collins was a good friend of his.

After sliding into one of the bar stools, Patton―a portly man with kind blue eyes―shuffled over to Virgil with a benign smile on his lips.

“Run out of candle wax?” Virgil asked, referring to the dimly lit room as his friend slid a glass into his hand, the amber liquid splashing against the sides and nearly spilling over the edge.

“It just offers more privacy for the lovely men and women working so damn hard to please,” Patton countered with a shrug, a rag in his hand while he cleaned the inside of a glass. The place was louder than usual but Patton was surprisingly quiet, thick prescriptions making his unease all the more apparent.

Something was wrong, but in Whitechapel, there almost always was.

Virgil didn’t think anything of it until Patton’s nervous gaze flickered to the other end of the bar, Virgil catching sight of a man perched on the edge of his stool with his back straight and chin high. There wasn’t much Virgil could make out in the shadows, but a small movement from the stranger allowed him to see a flash of hazel hidden behind a single monocle resting in front of his eye.

Infamously intelligent eyes surveyed the room, sizing the people in it up.

Virgil’s breath hitched, “What’s the detective doing here?”

Keeping his head down and hands busy by continuing to scrub the inside of the glass, Patton merely shrugged in response.

In turn, Virgil downed the rest of his drink and stood up, heading towards the detective despite his friend’s quiet protests. A look and they died down, Patton gnawing on his bottom lip as Virgil slid into the stool beside Detective Logan Droit on the other side of the bar.

Without looking up, the detective said, “I’d rather drink alone, thank you.”

“No one likes to drink alone, you just want to scare my friend.”

Logan looked up at Virgil then, the corners of his lips tugging up into a smirk. “Well if he’s innocent, he has nothing to be scared about.”

“He’s a business owner in what may be one of the worst parts of London,” Virgil countered through gritted teeth, defensively meeting the detective’s eye.

A laugh escaped from him as he shook his head, “Well there’s no need for that. Mr. Collins and I are . . . thoroughly acquainted. I have no trouble with this establishment and neither do any of my confreres. Now, what should I call you?”

“Tabram,” Virgil said after sneaking a glance from Patton, finding his glass filled and in his hand once again. But the bartender wasn’t looking at him, gaze fixed on the door across the room as if planning an escape.

“Well, Mr. Tabram,” Logan began, the title sounding far more sophisticated on his tongue, “you are clearly a dedicated friend but, once again, I prefer to drink alone.”

Virgil hadn’t even asked if the other had heard about his mother, the reason he approached the detective in the first place. But before he could even ask, a velvety voice cut in. “Well ain’t you two just the cutest little creatures to grace the planet.”

The faux-feminine accent caressed their ears, turning the men’s attention from one another and instead to a pair of prostitutes. Of the two, the woman looked the most virtuous.

“Ms. Nicholas,” Logan mused, accepting the back of her hand and bringing it up to his lips, gently kissing her knuckles. The woman faked a blush, playing up the exchange in what Virgil figured was hopes of settling on a price for a few minutes alone together. Beside her, a boy Virgil had never seen before was staring at him with eyes darker than the impenetrable depths of the unexplored ocean―enticing and willing Virgil to follow him into the unknown. To drown in his depths.

“And Roman, is it?”

“That would be correct, yes, Mr. Droit. And you are?” he asked, gaze flickering Virgil’s way.

“Virgil Tabram.”

Roman smiled, a set of pearly white contradicting his eyes, “The pleasure is all mine, Virgil darling.”

“Mr. Tabram will suffice.”

Something flashed in those dark eyes and Roman’s grin didn’t falter for a moment, soon settling in the stool beside Virgil with Polly Nicholas lounging half in Logan’s lap. Both looked comfortable, used to this by now.

“So, Virgil darling,” Roman began, decidedly ignoring the other’s request.

“Mr. Tabram,” Virgil insisted, swirling the contents in his glass around before taking a slow sip, throat bobbing. When he looked up, Roman had been watching him.

“But your name is one of the greatest I’ve ever heard!” argued Roman, fingers tracing shapes on the surface of his glass. “Virgil, Virgil, Virgil . . . a _Roman_ poet, you know.”

With a snort of amusement, Virgil responded, “So I’ve been told.”

Roman went on, “And just a few years ago, why, there was a war hero who got into a gunfight with these cowboys in the States! A pen-pal of mine was telling me about this particular Virgil, how he lived in his brother’s shadow all his life. Tragic, really.”

Nodding at the other’s words, Virgil said, “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of this Virgil, nor do I know of many Romans.”

“Well that’s just because there’s no one like me and, clearly, not many like you either.”

An involuntary blush settled across Virgil’s cheeks and when he turned towards Logan in an attempt to hide it, he realized that the other was gone.

“Don’t worry about them . . . Polly’s been with him before. She’s a good girl and will treat him right.” _And I could treat you right too, Virgil darling,_ although Roman had the decency to let that be left unsaid.

Virgil shivered when Roman’s fingers brushed over his own, wrapping around the glass in his hand and downing it in one go. There was a shine to his upper-lip and Roman licked off the remaining alcohol. Virgil’s mouth went dry. _Fuck._

Maybe he’d take him up on that offer.

Just over Roman’s shoulder, Virgil noticed that Patton was serving the only man in the room still sitting by himself, hat shadowing his facial features while off-white gloves covered his hands. It was only by the back of his neck that Virgil could even distinguish his ethnicity, which was probably what the man had been going for.

Life wasn’t easy for minorities, after all, whether they be of Asian descent like the man in the hat and gloves, black like the detective in one of the back rooms, or a sex worker like Roman. A homosexual, like Virgil.

Patton caught Virgil looking and walked over, eyes gentle as he poured his friend another drink. “Anything for you, Roman?”

“Whatever Mr. Droit will buy me.”

From behind Virgil, Logan laughed. “So nothing, then.”

“How rude.”

When Virgil turned, Logan was alone again, hair slightly disheveled as if he had made an effort to fix it after the deed was done. Beside him, Virgil knew that Roman was smirking. “Have a good time?”

“I’ve certainly had worse,” he replied, adjusting his waistcoat and settling his monocle over his eye again. With a nod their way, Logan started for the door, ignoring everyone but Patton, who he tipped his hat to before slipping out.

Within the hour, most followed suit in bidding their goodbyes until Roman and Virgil were nearly alone, joined only by the gloved man on the other side of the bar.

After finishing what must’ve been his fifth drink, Roman slid off his stool and ran his fingers through his hair. “As fun as this has been, you’re clearly not interested and I need to work tonight. So until next time, Virgil darling . . .” Roman grinned, mockingly bowing Virgil’s way before slipping out the back door.

For reasons Virgil couldn’t entirely discern, he was disappointed to see him go.

Patton didn’t keep his bar open for much longer, politely asking the gloved man to leave before turning Virgil’s way. “How much did you drink tonight, Virge?”

“Not enough to need to crash on your couch again,” he deflected while standing up, rolling his shoulders back, and cracking his neck.

“Are you quite sure?” Patton asked again, rounding the bar and standing before his friend with one hand on his shoulder. Although Virgil normally hated being touched, Patton was different. It made him feel loved and safe in the way only his mother had before-

“Yes,” Virgil nodded, offering the other a closed lip smile before turning to join the others in walking out the door. Patton followed to lock it behind him and officially call it a night, but as soon as the wooden door creaked open, an ear-splitting scream cracked like a whip through the cool, early-morning breeze.

“Help! Help!”

Following the source, Virgil sprinted down the cobblestone streets, racing around corners to follow the source of the distressed man. Violence ruled Whitechapel’s streets like a cruel king, but something felt off. Different.

And Virgil had the feeling that he knew why.

At the gated stable entrance just around the corner was a thin, wiry man standing near the body of a woman.

A dead woman.

The breath left Virgil’s lungs as he approached the pair, blood seeping through the woman’s abdomen and soaking her garments in pure red. Looking up, the man at the woman’s side shifted and gave Virgil better access to the victim, her throat slit and eyes lifeless in the moonlight, poor caricatures of what they had been hours before, minutes before.

Polly Nicholas stared up at Virgil as if cursing him for letting his guard down, letting her die the same way his mother had.

“Virgil,” a disembodied voice called, fingers brushing his elbow. But Virgil didn’t turn, gaping at the woman that had been joyously laughing with him what seemed like only moments before, looking devilish but only half as much as Roman.

God, where was Roman?

“Virgil,” the voice repeated and it was only then that he obliged, turning to see Patton there with Logan close behind. The detective was surveying the scene but after a moment, took initiative and pulled the man aside for questioning.

Patton didn’t leave Virgil’s side, hand on his shoulder as the police arrived on the scene. Roman made his way over soon after, staring at the body of his friend with tears swelling in his eyes. “Polly . . .”

There was nothing else he could add, only capable of staring at her corpse with a blank look in his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Patton reassured them, nudging both Roman and Virgil away from the mob as a man from the Central New Agency stepped through the crowd to corner Logan. Virgil hardly noticed his co-worker, too caught up in the gore before him to think anything of the reporter stopping at nothing to get the scoop.

Not that Virgil would have wanted to write this article instead.

“Come on,” Patton said after a moment, pulling Virgil away with Roman trailing not too far behind. Still shocked, of course, and clearly not wanting to be alone.

Virgil couldn’t blame him, not at all.

“You sure you are going to be alright, V?” Patton asked, waiting for Virgil to fish out his key and open his door. Beside him, Roman was silent, gaze remaining fixed on Virgil as if he too were awaiting his response.

Virgil couldn’t help but wonder what the other was thinking. “I am, yes . . . thank you again, Pat . . . Roman.”

A moment later, the door was closed and they were all going their separate ways. Virgil crawled up the steps until he was in front of his apartment door, using his second key to open his place up before locking it behind him. After what had happened to his mom and now Polly, he couldn’t be too careful.

Collapsing on his bed, Virgil didn’t even bother to kick off his shoes as he pulled the blankets up over his shoulders and turned towards the window already allowing morning light to filter through. Outside, the air was surprisingly cool and those who walked the streets knew that although a gentle autumn was among them, a wicked winter was right around the corner ready to slit their throats and leave their bodies to bleed out.

Before Virgil could fall asleep, Polly’s story had been printed and was being handed out to every man or woman that walked past the newsies on the corner of every street. “Murder, murder! Read all about it!”

A man kicked off the wall, keeping his cloak tight around his shoulders and hood low over his head. After handing the boy two pennies, he grabbed his copy of the article, waiting until he was alone before paging through it. Slowly, a ravenous smile spread across his lips at the sight of his work on the front page for everyone in London to see.

And there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky, a rare occasion, so it was a start to a wonderful day.

-

_A fool always find a greater fool to admire him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!
> 
> so,,,,officially back in business! sorry it took so long, some terrible things happened in my life over the past few months and i finally feel back on track (i’ll talk about them another time, i think, with the state of the world right now).
> 
> with the corona outbreak and most of us stuck at home and unable to go to school/work, i plan to be writing more! so pls be on the look out for more fics from mac and me in the near future! ik how hard it is to stay home but please do, social distancing is the only way to prevent more cases. and besides, reading gory, slutty victorian era prinxiety fanfic is so much better. trust me.
> 
> thank you again and i hope ou enjoyed!
> 
> until next time,  
> ronnie
> 
> p.s. for those of you interested in learning more about this fic/seeing other fics before they’re release/seeing ideas, pls consider become a patron! we kept it as cheap as it could be so for the price of a coffee, you can get all that and more! and for the first 5 patrons, i will write you a personalized fanfic! literally whatever the hell you want, no limits. so sign up quick!


	2. Wicked and Revolting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hours after Polly Nicholas’ murder, Virgil finds himself in the morgue with Detective Logan Droit trying to gather a list of suspects.

難知如陰，動如雷震

-

_ Friday, August 31, 1888 - 11:30 a.m. _

The morgue was as dark and melancholy as Virgil remembered, quiet except for the coroner’s hummed rendition of “London Bridge is Falling Down”. Beneath his spiny fingers as he unwrapped the body, the corpse lay unimpressed.

“Do you know what song that is?” Logan mumbled Virgil’s way as he peered over the coroner’s shoulder. Beside him, Virgil was slumped against the wall, arms crossed against his chest and gaze fixed on Polly Nicholas’ body as if, like his mother in his nightmares, she would suddenly sit up and scream.

“Funny,” Virgil dryly replied, fingernails digging into his bicep to keep himself grounded. Polly Nicholas wouldn’t sit up, she was dead. Polly Nicholas was dead, Polly Nicholas was dead, Polly-

“Funny? I’m being serious.”

Turning his head the detective’s way, Virgil cocked a brow. “You may be the only man in London who has never heard of ‘London Bridge’.”

“Well I know the London Bridge. Been on it once or twice, I believe.”

Virgil decidedly didn’t respond, letting out a huff of amusement. Of course Logan didn’t know the song, a common Sherlock too caught up in his own head to care about such things.

“She’s waiting if you two are finished with your conversation,” the coroner announced without looking up from Polly’s body, fingers running over the deep, surgical incision across her abdomen. The blanket that she had been wrapped in spilled over the sides of the table, leaving her completely exposed. “Unless you’d like to continue and I can put Ms. Nicholas back into the cooler until you’re ready?”

Falling silent, Virgil pushed off the wall and stood a few feet away from the cool, stone slab she lay on. Only a few weeks before, it had been his mother in Polly’s place, eyes closed and wearing nothing but skin.

“As you can see,” the coroner began, drawing Virgil’s attention to her neck, “there’s bruising here just beneath where he slit her neck.”

“Both slashes,” Logan corrected, stiffly moving closer until he was standing above her head and staring down the plains of her naked body. Technical and removed as if he hadn’t paid for her services the night before. “The first is shallow, hesitant. He wanted to minimize blood flow, but didn’t go deep enough so he had to do it again. After choking her and knocking her unconscious, of course.”

“So he killed her quickly?” Virgil asked. “To . . . to do the rest of it?”

“You mean the viscera? Oh, yes,” the coroner jumped in, removing his gloves and stepping away from her body. After removing his gloves, he opened the door and let in two men who wrapped Polly’s body up again before picking her up. Once they were gone, the coroner looked towards Logan nervously.

“Why am I here?” Virgil muttered after a moment. “Do I want to know?”

Without blinking, Logan said frankly, “The man who killed Ms. Nicholas might’ve been the same one that killed your mother.”

Virgil sucked in a breath, gripping the edge of the table to hide the way his hands were shaking. “How is my mother’s death anyway related to Polly’s? Just because they’re both sex workers?”

“One of the instruments used to kill Mar-your mother was a dagger. About six to eight inches, yes?”

A small nod in response, Virgil having devoted the details of his mother’s murder to memory.

“Likewise, Ms. Nicholas’ neck was slit by a blade of a similar length. That can’t be a coincidence, Mr. Tabram.”

The coroner, along with Virgil, remained silent, studying Logan as the detective elaborated further. “And your mother, most of the stab wounds to her neck and lower abdomen made the autopsy difficult, correct? And they couldn’t figure out what she was missing-”

“Stop,” Virgil interjected, not realizing until then the way his throat had begun to close as if the information were lodging itself deeper and deeper inside his throat. “Stop I . . . I get it, Detective.”

“I think I’ll phone for Mr. Collins,” Logan decided, mindlessly pressing his hand against the table where Polly’s head had been moments before. Then, he nodded to the coroner, saying a quick “Thanks, Emile” before leaving Virgil alone with his thoughts.

Emile disposed of his gloves in the garbage bin before running his fingers through his pristine white hair. “I’m sorry for Detective Droit’s bluntness . . . it wasn’t the way we had discussed telling you, and you’re far too young to have this burden to carry.”

Neither Logan or Emile could’ve been more than five or six years older than him, but Virgil couldn’t have agreed more.

“I just . . . am trying to comprehend it all.”

“Which is understandable,” Emile nodded sympathetically, sighing before mustering a kind smile. “I want you to keep your head, especially if Droit’s acting like this. Normally he waits until after my autopsy before investigating the body but for one reason or another, he spent the first half an hour with me examining the body before rambling about his theory and demanding that you must be told. He’s a good man dedicated to justice but it just struck me as sort of odd is all.”

Before Virgil could respond, a throat cleared from the door frame demanding to be acknowledged. Turning his head, Virgil saw Logan studying Emile with great interest, brows slanted downwards before he plucked his monocle from his eye and rubbed it against his slacks to clean it. “Thank you for your time, Emile. Come now, Mr. Tabram, Mr. Collins is expecting us.”

Nothing else needed to be said, Virgil thanking the coroner with a nod before following Logan out the door and through the crowd of reporters demanding statements. “Detective Droit, Detective Droit! And . . . Virgil? Virgil, what are you doing? How did you get inside? Why weren’t you at work this morning?”

“I’m working, Rem,” Virgil addressed his coworker, moving closer to Logan so they could slip through the crowd easier.

It was a moment or two longer before the pair managed to break away, rounding a corner and disappearing into the crowds of people huddling over their newspapers. Remy must’ve written a damn good article.

“How are the details of Polly’s murder already public?” Virgil mumbled in disbelief after overhearing bits of a conversation between two finely-dressed men. Looking up to Logan for a response, Virgil’s words seemed to have fallen onto deaf ears, the detective busy scanning the crowd as if looking for something. Someone.

“Did you say something, Mr. Tabram?”

“Nevermind, not important.”

A nod and they continued on wordlessly, Virgil surprised by how easily Logan wove through the crowd without needing to watch his step. Through the streets of London, an eerie excitement flooded through like fog, the sun high in the sky but breaths mingling below as they shared theories. More than once Virgil thought he’d have to grab Logan’s wrist and pull him out of the way of a couple buying flowers and talking in hushed tones or oblivious children that barely reached his knees barreling through; he easily evaded each obstacle, long legs never breaking stride.

Soon enough Virgil’s palm was pressed against the brass knob of Patton Collins’ bar, turning it carefully and stepping inside as the door creaked open. Logan followed close behind, roughly shutting the door behind them and making Virgil jump.

“Thank Heavens,” Patton said, quickly retracting his hand from the man sitting beside him before springing to his feet. Moments later, he was crossing the room to embrace his friend in a tight hug. “I was worried about you, Virge.”

“I’m okay, Pat,” Virgil replied, resting his chin on his friend’s shoulder in order to peer over towards the man his friend had left behind. “You knew Polly better than I did . . . I should be the one checking in on you.”

As if sensing Virgil’s gaze, the man at the bar turned. His hair was shamelessly slicked back to reveal half of a cleverly sculpted face, strong jaw and slanted eyes only enhancing his beauty. A gloved hand rested on the wooden bartop, fingers drumming against it before he turned the rest of the way.

The left side of his face was completely disfigured, a jarring blood-red like the outermost skin of an apple, wrinkled and painful to look at. Noticing Virgil’s poorly-concealed stare, the man offered a smirk before lowering his gaze to his pocket watch, rising to his feet while clicking his tongue. In a blink of an eye, his tophat was back on his head and was pulling his gloves tighter over his hands. “I unfortunately have another appointment in a half hour’s time, Mr. Collins. I hope to see you again.”

While pulling away from Virgil, Patton nodded the man’s way. “I will be in touch, Mr. Fujio.”

“I think it’s appropriate for you to call me Dee now, Mr. Collins.”

Logan still stood in front of the door, eyes flickering up and down as he seemed to study Patton’s acquaintance with great interest. Likewise, Dee Fujio cocked his head to the side as he observed the detective with a challenging look in his eyes. After a moment, Logan stepped away and Dee passed wordlessly, his chuckle fading as the door closed behind him.

Patton didn’t meet either of the remaining men’s gazes, settling back behind his bar and leaning against it with the fingers of one hand tangled in his hair. He released a breath and shook his head before grabbing a bottle of gin and four glasses, placing it before them as Virgil and Logan slid into the stools they had sat in the night before.

“Isn’t it a little early for this?” Virgil chuckled as Patton filled his glass to the brim. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

“It’s necessary,” he replied, taking a slow drink from his own glass. Virgil had never seen Patton drink before, having seen enough men in his bar surrender their lives to the bottle, but he was drinking now. Poured himself another glass, even.

Logan let the bartender finish his second glass before asking, “Who’s the fourth glass for?”

The door hesitantly opening answered his question, three pairs of eyes darting toward the silhouette in the doorway surrounded by golden light. “Hello, Virgil darling,” Roman smiled weakly, closing the door and plunging the room into shadows once more. As he walked towards the group, candlelight made his golden hair gleam above him like a halo, juxtaposing his dark eyes missing their usual merriment.

It was like Virgil was staring before his mirror again, misery apparent and gorgeous features sunken. Completely hollow.

“Broke out the gin yet, Pat?” Roman asked, voice scratchy and so unlike the sultry song that had seduced Virgil the day before. “Good, because I’m starving.”

“I can get you something to eat, Ro,” Patton offered, pouring Roman his drink as the tired man slid into the stool beside Virgil and accidentally brushed his forearm with his elbow.

“Can’t keep anything down. The drink’s fine, though, thank you.”

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Collins, I would like something,” Logan announced, glass untouched and intentions of remaining sober clear. “Breakfast, perhaps?”

“Hams, eggs, and bread?”

“That should be adequate, yes.”

Virgil’s stomach churned at the thought, fingers tightening around his glass.

Patton nodded, “One moment, then.”

Waiting until he had gone into the back, Logan cleared his throat, “I am truly glad that you’re here, Roman. I know this situation is hard for both of you but it is my responsibility to find the man behind this.”

Beside Virgil, a look of disbelief spread across Roman’s face. “You’re seriously asking for me to help with this, hours after Polly’s death? She was like an older sister to me, a sibling I had never had, and I can’t even think straight with her gone!” He rambled in a child-like manner.

“I know the wound is fresh-”

“It’s been three weeks since my mother’s death and I’m in the same situation, Detective,” Virgil said cooly, releasing his glass and letting his hand fall into his lap. “I’ll help, but don’t expect much out of either of us. It’s hard.”

Roman’s eyes shone with sympathy before he closed them and took a sip of his gin. The glass clicked on the bar table as he took a small breath to compose himself, then leaning in and signalling for Logan to speak. “Alright, Droit, have you already solved it or are you just about there?”

“Well the murderer is clearly the man that killed Martha Tabram.”

Raising a brow, Roman inquired, “And how do you figure that?”

“Similar murder weapon length,” Virgil answered, index finger tracing the circular shape of his knee. “My mother was stabbed almost forty times and Ms. Nicholas’ throat was slit after being strangled until she was unconscious, but Detective Droit is convinced there is a correlation.”

“It’s feasible and should be considered,” Logan nodded, passing his drink across Virgil so it would be in front of Roman. The blond man took a thankful swig before pouring the rest into his half-empty glass and sliding it back in front of Logan.

“So if it’s the same man, have you gone through reports?” Roman inquired, “Discovered who both women were with last? Names of possible suspects in the area to see if one or two were seen at both? If there’s another murder that may also be linked?”

“No need, the killer’s first was Ms. Tabram. Sloppy work, definitely out of anger.” As a second thought, Logan looked to Virgil, “Her death was quick but impersonal, the killer clearly didn’t have any relation to her and simply wanted to kill. There was malice aforethought when dealing with Ms. Nicholas, however.”

“And possible suspects?”

Logan was silent for a beat, considering before saying, “Well . . . there’s Mr. Collins.”

A laugh escaped from Roman and he shook his head, the sound shocking and demanding the others’ attention.  _ “Patton?  _ Apologies but . . . you think that  _ Patton  _ is our killer?”

“I don’t think I know where you’re coming from with that one, Detective,” Virgil agreed, shaking his head a bit as he let his eyes remain on Roman and his smile for a moment longer before turning away. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, I was at the bar last night because there was a threat to Mr. Collins’ life.”

They fell silent then, Virgil knowing that Roman’s eyes must’ve mirrored his own.

“Mr. Collins received a letter yesterday morning demanding that he keep sodomites out of his bar or . . . how was it worded? Suffer the consequences? Something of that nature at least. He hired me to look for anything suspicious and, well, it was rather suspicious that he spent most of his time with Mr. Fujio. A convicted felon.” Then, as an after-thought, Logan added, “For arson, not murder, but still.”

“Well, Detective,” said Virgil while shaking his head, pushing away from the bar and standing up, “you’ve given us a lot to consider but I really don’t think that my closest friend was the man to kill my mother. Patton can’t keep anything from me, especially something so wicked and . . . revolting.”

Logan opened his mouth as if to say something before closing it, thinking better of it.

“Besides, he’s, uh . . .” Virgil trailed off, stopping himself before he could finish and expose his friend. “Patton can befriend just about anyone, it doesn’t surprise me that even a criminal is drawn to him.”

“It would make sense, Mr. Tabram. Both murders were connected to you in one way or another and you have known Mr. Collins for how long now?”

“It wasn’t him,” Virgil replied with finality, pushing his glass Roman’s way before turning away. “Thank you for your theories but wait until you’re more certain before accusing the best man I have ever met.”

The door to the bar slammed behind Virgil and he took a breath of cool air, feeling settled as the oxygen worked its way through his body. Centered him, slowing the rapidly spinning world down to return to the moment.

“Virgil,” a voice called from behind him, Virgil flinching when a calloused hand landed on his shoulder and turned him around. Roman stood there, cheeks flushed from the alcohol but demeanor otherwise composed.

His name in such a soft, sympathetic tone made Virgil shake, anger fading as all of his repressed emotions flooded through his body like water rushing through a broken dam. But Roman was there to catch him, arms wrapping around his body and pulling him close as Virgil’s knees threatened to buckle.

“It’s okay, Virgil darling,” he mumbled in Virgil’s ear, one hand clasping the back of his neck and guiding his face towards Roman’s shoulder. Although Roman was an inch or two shorter than Virgil, he was strong with broad shoulders and Virgil’s head fit perfectly. Neither cared that they were in the center of a crowd, that those most devoted to their faith looked upon them with judgment.

Used to scorn, Roman remained a solid pillar for Virgil to rest against until he was able to pull away and stand on his own two feet. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Roman grinned, a suggestive look in his eyes that Virgil couldn’t help laughing at.

“Persistent, huh?” he said, running his fingers through his hair and sighing as his heart continued to pound in his chest.

“Can you blame me?” he breathed, voice lower than before and eyes following suit as they dipped below Virgil’s gaze. Passed his chest.

Virgil’s stomach flipped but in the middle of a crowd in broad daylight, there was little he could do about it. “I have to get to work.”

“And so do I,” Roman shrugged, lips still lewdly curved upwards. “Another time, Virgil darling, I promise.” Then, in a voice so soft that Virgil wasn’t sure whether or not he had imagined it, Roman added, “I’ll be thinking of you.”

He couldn’t help but watch Roman leave, the way his calf muscles strained against his slacks and hips swayed effeminately.

_ I’ll be thinking of you. _

Virgil knew that it was only a matter of time before Roman got his way, breached the ivy-coated walls that nearly nineteen years had constructed―loosened it brick by brick.

Without Patton and Roman, the commute to his flat was relatively quick. At the market, he bought an asphodel flower, drawn to the white with hints of color along its petals. While unlocking his front door, he turned to see the street behind him mostly deserted, women still at home cooking, children learning, and men still at work, but there were a few stragglers here and there. None paid him any mind but Virgil still felt as if someone was watching him, eyes studying his every move.

He gripped the flower in his right hand tighter as he inserted the key and opened the door, locking it behind him before slowly ascending the stairs. Every bone in his body begged for him to run, ached to be inside his flat, but he kept calm and knew there was no reason to panic.

Once inside, he bolted his door and settled his mind by placing the flower in an old vase that had sat empty atop of his dresser since his mother’s death. Stepping back to look at it, Virgil realized then that unlike the flowers his mother had love, it held no color. But he didn’t mind―not sure he was ready for vivid roses, carnations, or lilacs―lighting a candle and placing it beside the vase before drawing the curtains closed. Behind the faded purple fabric, the setting sun was a splendorous display London rarely witnessed.

From the street, the dark figure that had been watching Virgil turned away and began to move eastward. Slipping back into the shadows.

-

_ Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night,  _ _ and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!
> 
> i spent my whole day writing bc i really procrastinated this chapter so hh,,,,,dont let me do that again lmao.
> 
> i had fun writing this one tho after i got out of writer’s block so i hope you enjoy! i think this is a pretty short fic but shit is gonna go down. promise
> 
> until next time,  
> ronnie


	3. Beautiful and Bizarre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another murder but this time, Detective Logan Droit and Virgil Tabram seek help elsewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that there is a mention of su*c*de, stay safe!

_ An té a luíonn le madaí, eiroidh sé le dearnaid _

-

_ Saturday, September 8, 1888 - 6:27 a.m. _

The knocking on the front door was loud enough to stir the fleas in Virgil’s bed. From above, dust fluttered down and coated Virgil’s now-conscious form like an early snowfall. He sneezed before pushing himself to his feet, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as the bare soles of his feet padded against the old, wood floor.

After sliding the rusty latch free, he swung the door open to reveal his landlord. “Someone here to see you,” Joan said, head flickering towards the stairs. At the bottom step was a man with a black cloak thrown over his shoulders and hood concealing most of his features. But Virgil would know the strength of that jaw anywhere, the unapologetic sway of his hips as he walked, and those perfectly-shaped lips curled up into a cheshire grin.

“Virgil Tabram, yes?” the man asked in a voice like nails on a chalkboard—worse still, like fingernails nailed to a chalkboard. Not Roman, not at all, an impostor wearing his face, and Virgil couldn’t help the fact that he visibly flinched.

After recovering, he cleared his voice and said, “That would be me, yes. Who, if I may, is asking?”

“Certainly not me, I’ve never heard of you in my life, Mr. Tabram. Nor do I care, even if you are just as attractive as he said you were.” A pause, amusement profound after pulling his hood back to reveal hair Roman’s striking blonde. Their similarities, however, stopped there; sunken cheeks and pale skin made Virgil wonder if this doppelganger actively toed the line of starvation, and an uncomfortably thick and bushy mustache tickled his upper lip. “But Detective Droit paid me well so I decided to stretch my legs and walk over while he went to the morgue-”

“He’s at the morgue?” Virgil interjected, pushing any thoughts of where Logan had found the Roman look-alike aside. “Another murder?”

Joan, with one hand on the railing, walked down the stairs and rounded the visitor before slipping into the maintenance door to God-knows-where. Meanwhile, the man watched the landlord’s back, eyes darkening with every step, and it was only after Joan slipped out of sight that he responded. “It seems so, but I would put a shirt on before you join him . . . to my knowledge, you’re both already spoken for.”

Glancing down, Virgil realized he was only in his white, tight-fitting pantaloons that barely reached his knees. It took all of his self-control not to cover his torso and protruding ribs. “I don’t have time for women . . . and to my knowledge, neither does Detective Droit.”

“Proving my point further, yes?”

As if on cue, a voice that had been gracing his dreams and whispering sweet nothings hummed in his ears.  _ I’ll be thinking of you. _

No, he wasn’t wrong. Not at all.

“Lo will not be pleased with me if you don’t come, so get dressed, handsome. I have to do my rounds but I’m sure our paths will cross again.” And after pulling his hood up over his head again, he turned. The man vanished without another word, leaving Virgil standing in the hallway in only his undergarments with his breaths falling short and quick, thoughts of Roman consuming him.

There wasn’t enough time to deal with himself, though, so he instead got quickly dressed and locked his door, finding the streets already packed and swelling with exaggerated tales of Annie Chapman’s death. “Raped and beaten to death” one claimed while another whispered that “the killer skinned her completely and then he ate her heart.”

All Virgil could do was quicken his pace.

The door to the morgue almost hit Virgil square in the face, but he quickly recoiled and jumped back as Logan slipped out into the bright morning. “Oh good, Mr. Tabram,” he said, face relaxing slightly at the sight of his acquaintance. For whatever reason, the detective seemed to find Virgil paramount in this investigation and motioned for the other to follow him over to the next building.

The city jail, heavily guarded as expected from a place like Whitechapel.

One of the inmates whistled at Logan and Virgil as they walked by, gripping the steel metal bars meant to cage him in and protect the pair from whatever urge was provoking him. Virgil spared only a glance, the corner of his lips twitching up in amusement because very few men like them were open about their attractions, their sinful impulses. Hid them or, worse still, repressed them and lived their lives in agony as their ugly wives bore ugly children that screamed and screamed until finally he traded a penny for a firm rope and kicked the chair out from beneath his feet just to escape the noise. It was more common than Virgil cared to think about, and he wondered if the graying man had once willingly worn ruby-red bruises circling from the strip of his throat round back to his neck after his youngest son found his body about to go limp.

Most of the lags were poor, middle-aged men desperate for attention, banging against the bars if they were sober or conscious enough to do so, but like the old man who whistled at them, Logan didn’t seem to pay them any mind; his determined gaze remained fixed ahead of them, and no amount of tormenting by the convicts could steer him off course.

At the end of the line was a man with his shoulders back and a steady head on them, picking at his nails disinterestedly as the howling among the neighboring cells continued. The torchlight caught his serpentine stare, and Virgil turned to Logan, wondering what in the Lord’s name they were doing here.

But Dee Fujio was expecting them, clearly, so Logan didn’t bother to answer Virgil’s silent inquiry.

“Detective Droit . . . surely you don’t think that  _ I  _ am your killer . . . do you?”

“It would make sense, wouldn’t it? As Mr. Collins’ lover?”

The hollering turned more wanton until one of the coppers hit his baton against the wall to shut them up.

Dee hummed in consideration, head tilting to the side before he slithered to his feet and carefully slid to join them by the bars of his cell. “Maybe, but that would hardly make sense, Detective . . . that I killed Miss Tabram and poor, poor Polly Nicholas for my Patton―not when he would  _ lose business.” _

After pausing for a moment of emphasis, letting the words settle, he continued, “And, tell me, Detective, when was this third murder found? An hour ago? Two? Otherwise you would have come to see me sooner, no matter the hour. And you would have found me here―not sleeping because who could sleep in a place like this―but with an alibi.”

“What did you do to land you here again?” Virgil couldn’t help but ask, a chill creeping up his spine as Dee acknowledged him. His friend’s lover and Virgil could see what Patton saw in him because aside from the great and ghastly blotch of discoloration, he was beautiful.

“Burned down a hospital,” he responded without hesitation, unable to conceal his laughter at Virgil’s reaction. “No no, Virgil darling, I’m not that cruel. It was my old orphanage that they decided to rebuild. Didn’t get the idea the first time, I suppose.”

Virgil wasn’t sure what else he had expected from a man who liked to play with fire and, by the looks of it, had gotten burnt.

“So you have an accomplice? One to continue your work to give you an alibi while you have your way with an orphanage?” Logan reasoned, turning the conversation back into his hands.

“An accomplice? An interesting twist,” he mused in return, Virgil’s lips pursing as the other’s gaze flickered back to the detective. “And who would he be? Good little Patton who can hardly pour our drinks with a steady hand? I love him but he isn’t skilled enough to do it, especially not while worrying about what I may or may or not be doing with a few matches and a group of women who don’t know how to stay dead. Besides, he would’ve turned himself in by now, especially since your mother was the first. Would he be able to look you in the eye if he had?”

The question was directed to Virgil but Logan answered instead, “Perhaps he’s less innocent than he leads us to believe. Especially if he’s infatuated with you.”

Dee merely rolled his eyes, “Don’t be so simple, your intelligence is why I’m even bothering to give you the time of day.”

A pause, Virgil’s breath hitching before he softly said, “You know who he is, don’t you? The killer.”

“Obviously,” Logan huffed, shaking his head in mild frustration. “That’s why we’re here, but we may be wasting time, Mr. Fujio has no desire to sell out a serial killer, even for his freedom.”

“I’ve told you all that you need to know, Detective,” Dee countered with a malicious grin, gloveless hand rising until it was wrapped around the metal bar like a rope around a lifeless neck. Virgil’s attention was fixed on him, on the disfigured hands that must’ve got the worst of the fire long ago. There were no fingernails or hair that he could see, only depthless black skin like charcoal rather than Logan’s rich pigment. “If you had half the mind you thought you did, you would’ve pieced it together by now.”

Those lean, charred fingers were tapping out a pattern, index finger lifting and falling in quick repetition. His eyes remained on Virgil as he did so, unblinking as he said, “We live in a beautiful and bizarre world and your killer . . . well, he may just be the last person you expect, Virgil darling.”

The lights went out then and the screaming was deafening, Logan’s finger wrapping around Virgil’s wrist as he pulled the other towards the door where there was still light. Behind them, Dee’s laughter rang louder than the others as if he knew something Virgil did not.

-

“What in God’s name was that?” Virgil asked once his anxiety had swelled to it’s usual, manageable level. His heart was still pounding but the pastry shop across the street attempted to soothe him with its quiet ambiance. Then there was the tea and plate of macaroons before him lessening the symptoms of the attack.

“One of the convicts threw the contents of his chamber pot at the torch, I believe we might’ve stepped in it on our way out,” Logan explained, hesitantly lifting his foot to rest on his knee and study the sole. The twitch of his nose made Virgil think that he was right, and he silently thanked whatever being that reigned above that he had worn his father’s old leather shoes. “But fortunately for us, it was ample timing . . . Mr. Fujio had nothing else to add and, frankly, I find his toying bothersome. We don’t have much time until our killer strikes again.”

“So what can we do? Request that an order is placed to guard every alley in Whitechapel and other poor districts until he’s caught ripping a girl’s flesh clean off her body?”

Logan disregarded Virgil’s pessimism entirely, “We figure the motive and assess from there.”

Without much room for dissent, so Virgil popped a macaroon into his mouth and sipped his tea while waiting for the detective to begin theorizing. “I truly believe we’ve seen the man, at the very least were within a half-mile of him upon Polly’s murder.”

“Although we all rule out the possibility of this being a woman, maybe she’s clever enough to kill like a man to avoid being caught. All the victims are sex workers, wouldn’t they trust another woman?”

“Unlikely, a woman would not have stabbed your mother thirty-nine times in the chest.” As if sensing Virgil’s obvious discomfort, Logan then said more gently, “That’s a man’s anger and impulse to feel powerful.”

“So we’re back to a man, one who we may know. Not Patton or Mr. Fujio, but the last person we’d expect . . .”

While sipping his tea, Logan nodded in agreement. When he lowered his cup, a light residue of the milky beverage clung to the skin above his top lip and Virgil was suddenly reminded of something. “Oh, I just remembered that I was meaning to ask you where you picked that man up from. The one that came for me this morning?”

“You mean Remus?” Logan asked, wiping his lips with the back of his hand before letting it fall back into his lap. The casual use of the name caught Virgil’s attention, the detective never faltering from his formalities. Well-versed in etiquette, probably to compensate for his blackness in a world that hated him for it.

“He didn’t introduce himself but a blond man with brown eyes and a caterpillar on his mouth?”

“I think his mustache is quite handsome,” Logan countered, reaching for a macaroon. “And his eyes are gentler than his brother’s.”

“Brother’s?”

Logan looked puzzled, right brow arching as if wondering whether or not Virgil was serious. “Roman, of course. His twin.”

_ To my knowledge, you’re both already spoken for. _

That’s how Remus had known, Roman had talked to him before, told Remus just how attractive he thought Virgil was. The knowledge alone felt like his first taste of an opium den, a boy with painted eyelids straddling his waist as he smoked his weight in drugs.

Logan went on, “They grew up rich, but Remus was thrown out at seventeen after embarrassing their father for the last time. Roman lasted longer, making it until his first year of medical school before he was caught sleeping with a man. Found Remus in Whitechapel by chance.”

“How long have you known them?” Virgil asked, deciding it was a benign question as any.

“Remus since he was seventeen, I had just finished school and was beginning my career in Whitechapel, and Roman when he was twenty-one. Remus is . . . he’s my partner, you see, so of course we gave his brother our spare room when he needed it.”

As morning turned to afternoon, clouds began to race across the once-clear sky and they decided to part, Logan using a piece of cloth to scrawl down his telephone number. “Remus isn’t allowed to answer it because it’s for my work and he has an inclination to pretend he’s me and make sport of my clients,” Logan spoke with a chuckle, eyes illuminating the way they only ever did when his lover was mentioned. True love was a strange thing, especially between two men.

It was then that Virgil froze, breath leaving him completely. Logan was in love with Remus and even if he fancied ladies as well, he’d never betray his partner’s trust and sleep with one, at least Virgil didn’t take him as the sleazy type that would do such a thing. But he had taken off with Polly Nicholas, paid for her time.

No, he didn’t have sex with her. He killed her.

Laughter, a harmony between Remus and Dee, sounded in the space between Virgil’s ears. Stupid, how could he have been so stupid?  _ He may just be the last person you expect. _

Sir Arthur Donan Coyle couldn’t compete with reality, no matter what he put his Sherlock and Watson through.

Virgil was pushing through the crowd, tearing at cloth to keep himself afloat in the sea of chaos as a light rain began to kiss his exposed skin, knocking him further and further into the depth of the crowd. The streets were small but not small enough for Virgil to feel lost, wondering just how much longer until Logan realized that Virgil had caught on and killed him too.

“Virgil?” a voice called from somewhere in the deep and it took all of his strength to turn, taking a deep breath of stability before meeting Roman’s eyes. They were as dark as ever against the dull gray sky, but somehow still gentle and swelling with genuine concern. “Virgil darling, are you alright?”

A few people who heard the hint of femininity in Roman’s tone shot looks of disgust before turning away in disapproval. Virgil hardly noticed anyway, shaking his head slightly, “Can’t say I am . . . I might be a bit lost.”

Nodding, a whisper of a smile settled across Roman’s lips as he took Virgil by his elbow and began to guide him through the streets back to his flat. Like a proper escort.

The front door was open but after making it up the staircase, Roman motioned for the other to get his key out. Once inside, Virgil bolted and locked the door, not trusting that they hadn’t been followed.

Logan was a smart man, after all, so Virgil would just have to be smarter.

“What is it?” Roman whispered, concern still visible as Virgil settled onto the edge of his bed. There wasn’t time to be insecure about his place; how his bed was the only place to sit, the fact that they could hardly see each other with the clouds and rain darkening the natural glow from the lone window.

“I know who the killer is . . . it’s Logan Droit.”

In Roman’s defense, he didn’t react at all, just nodding as he contemplated. Considered objectively.

“I know your brother . . . I know he’s your brother’s lover and on the night of Polly’s murder, he was alone with her for a period of time. He wouldn’t have slept with her, not if he loves him the way he should.”

That was when Roman broke, a smirk spreading across his lips as his arms crossed against his chest. “And what makes you think that our Detective loves my brother the way he should? Unconditionally and without ever suffering from temptation? We all sin, Virgil darling.”

Roman crossed the room until his thighs were brushing against Virgil’s knees, fingers tilting his chin up so they were staring into one another’s eyes and  _ see _ one another completely for the first time. Virgil was breathless as Roman taunted in a weak voice, “Don’t you?”

Before either could blink, Virgil was pulling Roman down into his kiss, one hand roughly gripping his hip and the other possessively tugging the strands of his hair. Roman could only groan, letting Virgil manipulate and mold him until he was on his back, legs wrapped around his waist and bucking his hips to take the other deeper into his warmth.

“God,” he moaned, head tilting as Virgil’s teeth broke through the sensitive skin of his neck, sure to bruise. “More . . . harder.”

Neither were thinking about anything else, not Annie Chapman, not Logan possibly being her murderer, not even the landlord as Joan banged on the front door to tell them to keep it down because it’s three-thirty for Heaven’s sake, you filthy sodomites.

It just made them go harder, Virgil flipping them over so Roman was gripping his shoulders and riding him until they were both coming, sweat falling down their chests like the raindrops racing down the windowpane. When they parted, Virgil had the decency to wipe his stomach off with his shirt before getting up and closing his curtain, hoping that it had been too rainy for many people to be on the street, too dark for those that were to see through the window.

Roman was up and half-dressed by the time Virgil made it back to the bed, letting himself relax with his flaccid cock lazily resting between his legs. Looking back at him, Roman found himself grinning, “Been waiting to do that for weeks now . . .”

Snorting in amusement, Virgil ran his fingers through his hair while arching his back to stretch his limbs. Then, he rolled over so he was on his hip and watching Roman’s gorgeous bare skin disappear beneath cloth. “Good as you thought it’d be?”

“Mhmmm . . . better,” Roman confessed after a moment, biting the inside of his cheek at the sight of Virgil but turned away. “Anyway . . . I’ll keep your Logan theory in mind. Won’t tell Remus though, he either knows and will cover for him by saying that they were in bed together last night or he doesn’t know and will tell Logan you suspect him before you can make any ground. I know my brother.”

Virgil nodded and without another word, Roman was gone, and somewhere in London, the killer stalked through the streets with a grin, knowing for sure that he would never be caught.

-

_ He who lies with dogs gets up with fleas. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!
> 
> back again, sorry for the week off, it was my mom's birthday and i didn't have much free time, but hopefully this chapter was worth it! once again wrote the majority of it in one sitting but i'm kind of proud, thought it was solid.
> 
> and hopefully none of you knows who is our murderer! is virgil right and it's logan? is it roman? maybe it's patton or remus,,,,stay tuned, you might just find out in the next chapter ;)
> 
> thank you again for reading and until next time,  
> ronnie


	4. Tears and Terror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected turn of events leaves Virgil completely, and utterly, in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> most graphic chapter so far (in terms of BOTH gore and sex). stay safe <3

_Quis ut Deus?_

-

_Thursday, September 13, 1888 - 3:24 a.m._

At the stroke of three, Patton Collins always kicked the last few stragglers out of his pub, locking up and wiping down his bartop. One of his regulars had vomited half a crown’s worth of liquor only minutes before and although Virgil had offered to clean it up for him, Patton waved him off, insisting that it was his job. “And besides,” he added with a hum in content, “you two are my guests.”

Logan sat soundlessly by Virgil’s side, glass untouched, but whiskey eyes bearing an intoxicated gleam in the light. His hands were curled into two bolder-like fists in his lap, body uncharacteristically tense.

“Anything I can get you, Mr. Droit?” Patton asked easily, also seeming to note the other’s unconventional behavior. “On the house, of course.”

“I’m quite alright, Mr. Collins, although I do appreciate your sentiment.”

After a polite nod, Patton’s eyes flickered to meet Virgil’s, but he refused to look away from the detective for even a moment, waiting for him to snap. “I’ll take some absinthe,” Virgil said after a moment. “Don’t see any on the shelves, though.”

“Got a shipment from France this morning, bottles still in the back.”

Virgil knew that already and flicked his head towards the door, waiting until it swung closed before meeting Logan’s gaze. The detective was already watching him, a half-smirk across his lips as a laugh escaped from him.

“Absinthe when there’s a perfectly good bottle of Guinness practically whispering your name? I can hear it now actually,” Logan mused, pushing off his stool and rising to his full height. He was easily over six feet and with the years he had on Virgil, his body had filled out. He was lean but strong with definition to his muscles that told anyone with the urge to fight to think again. “Virgil, Virgil, Virgil . . . do you hear it?”

Virgil didn’t respond, couldn’t if he tried.

Rounding the bartop, Logan seized the bottle with an unforgiving hand, suffocating the neck before setting it down in front of him. Then with a swift hand, he downed the contents of his glass before beginning to pour the liquid into it. Virgil was silent, knowing Logan would speak before his strike―like the forewarning hiss of a snake before it landed its killing blow.

“You know, Virgil,” Logan began, index finger tracing the rim of the glass with his eyes following his movements, “I would have gotten away with it.”

“With what?” Virgil breathed, although with the way that his smile curled up into an even more devious grin, he didn’t need an answer. Hardly even blinked when Logan smashed the bottle on the edge of the bar counter before taking a swing at Virgil’s head.

Everything was blurry and Virgil’s senses failed him, the world spinning as liquid night dripped down the counter into his eyes. Ringing in his ears consumed him and just beneath it, he could faintly hear Patton’s screams. Why he wasn’t immediately knocked unconscious was beyond him, but all he knew was that suddenly, Logan was staring over Patton’s cooling corpse, his best friend as still as death itself.

Blood dripped into Virgil’s eyes and when he blinked them away, it was no longer Patton lying lifelessly before him. No.

It was his mother.

The world had done its best to prevent Martha Tabram’s only son from seeing her mutilated body. Kept the newspapers from his steps, had the coroners fix her up so she looked like she was merely resting, deep in a fantastical dream that she was only a touch away from being woken up from. Not anymore; not with more stab wounds than Virgil could count trailing from her neck down to her torso, and blood covering her body like scarlet sheets.

Her heart was still beating in Logan’s hands and Virgil couldn’t even see where he had pulled it out from. But it was beating and beating and beating and Virgil wasn’t a doctor, but surely there was no way that it was possible, that she could still be alive in this state.

Behind them, Patton’s body now hung from the rafters alongside Polly Nicholas and Annie Chapman, not sure when they had been placed there but unable to avert his gaze from their swaying as if they were tapestries blowing in a cool, autumnal breeze. As Virgil began to lose consciousness, Logan Droit began to approach him, footsteps creaking the wooden floor as a maniacal laugh slithered through the deadly silent air.

-

Sobbing, Virgil didn’t wake at first, Roman shaking his shoulders over and over until he jolted with a scream.

“Virgil darling,” Roman whispered, voice rough from sleep. “My love, tell me.”

But he couldn’t speak, could hardly breathe as his eyes scanned his body in the dark for blood. Roman was saying something but Virgil couldn’t hear them, couldn’t hear anything except for Patton’s blood-curdling scream and Logan’s sinister snarl.

“Virgil,” Roman repeated more forcefully, whatever bit of drowsiness gone as he straddled his waist and grabbed his chin so that he was looking at him. “Virgil, talk to me.”

“Was it real?” His voice was shaking and seeing how rattled Virgil was, Roman’s eyes darkened.

“Was what real, sweetheart?” Roman cooed, voice soft and comforting despite his body’s hardness. Protective, almost as if he would do whatever was in his power to destroy Virgil’s nightmares.

“Patton . . . Logan killing him,” Virgil muttered, incapable of uttering more than a few words at a time. “Mom . . .”

“Just a dream,” Roman reassured him, cupping the back of his neck and pressing Virgil’s head against his shoulder. Virgil sat unmoving as Roman’s fingers slipped into his hair, lips caressing his neck like a whispered prayer. A promise that he was back and alive, that the here and now was real. But Roman’s touch always assured him of it, that and the heat between his legs whenever he did so.

Roman seemed to feel it and laughed into Virgil’s hair, nose brushing against his ear before gently nibbling, “But this isn’t.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised, not an uncommon dream for me,” Virgil countered, tilting his neck to the side to expose himself. His hands slipped from his sides to Roman’s back, blunt fingernails digging into those defined shoulders.

“Well,” Roman breathed, tongue dragging down to his collarbone, “does this feel like a dream to you, Virgil darling?”

If Roman had been a girl, Virgil would have told him that he loved him then and there. Instead, they fell into one another, Virgil sleeping soundlessly afterwards with his arms wrapped tightly around Roman’s waist.

They were both gone by sunrise, Roman before Virgil woke, and Virgil after grabbing a piece of bread on the way out. With all of London still whispering about the murders, the Central News Agency wasn’t giving anyone a break, especially not someone so closely connected to it all.

But his pages remained blank, typewriter collecting dust and ink practically begging to be used. They told him to write when he was ready. He wasn’t yet. It had been just over a month since the anniversary of his mother’s death and she still haunted his dreams, so of course not.

Virgil suspected that the only reason he hadn’t been fired was because Remy was compensating. Peeking over his shoulder, he watched said man type away, coffee dutifully in hand and boss over his shoulder, whistling after scanning the sheet before clapping a hand on his back in approval. Kind brown eyes then rose to meet Virgil’s, offering an understanding, lenient smile.

Thomas was too good to be human, and Virgil felt guilty for not being able to work and deserve his patience. So he made an effort, getting a few lines of a draft down before the lunch bell signalled their half-hour break.

Before he could slip off with the others, Thomas met his eye again and flickered his head towards his desk. Virgil wordlessly joined him.

“I just wanted to check in with you, see how you were doing.”

A small, involuntary laugh escaped from Virgil, part nervousness, part something else. “Honestly, Mr. Sanders-”

“‘Thomas’ will do,” he interjected while standing up from his office chair, tucking it back beneath his desk before leaning back against the edge with his eyes on Virgil. “Continue.”

“Honestly, Thomas,” Virgil began again, beginning to scratch at his forearm, “I’m doing all I can.”

“And that’s all anyone can ask of you, Virge,” Thomas nodded, reaching a comforting hand out to squeeze his arm. “You take your time, okay? You’re one of the best we got and I feel as though _I_ should be thanking _you_ for staying despite the circumstances.”

A flash of light and Logan was there standing over his mother’s bloodied body, gone as quickly as it appeared with Virgil digging his fingernails into the soft, pale skin of his forearm to remain sane and in the moment. “There’s no need to thank me,” Virgil insisted, releasing his hold on his arm and letting his hand drop, flexing it by his side to get ahold of himself.

With a sigh, Thomas said, “Alright, I won’t deprive you of another moment of your break. Take the time you need off for the day.” Before Virgil could protest, Thomas added, “Paid, don’t worry about it. Get yourself something to eat.”

For the first time in over a month now, a genuine smile spread across Virgil’s lips, a bit of joy reaching his eyes as he nodded in acknowledgement and appreciation. “Yes, sir.”

With that, he spun on his heel and turned to the door, the cloudy sky above riddled with silver linings and flooding the cobblestone streets with an ethereal glow. Around him, angels floated through the streets, young children stretching their wings as they laughed those delicate laughs and smiled those brilliant smiles. A woman’s golden curls bounced with every step and Virgil wanted to reach out and run his fingers through the silken strands.

The world was almost perfect, and he began scanning the streets for the one person that would make it so. Not that there would any chance of finding Roman, so he would enjoy life and its imperfections from the saint-like darlings slipping their stubby, little hands into passerbyers’ pockets, the beautiful blonde woman turning and revealing two missing front teeth, and the two men in the alley Virgil was walking by pressing against one another.

A flash of silver caught the light and Virgil’s gaze involuntarily returned to the dark alley to see that the men were not caught up in a passionate, sacrilegious embrace. No, not at all. It was a fight.

And while Detective Logan Droit had only his hands for protection, Roman was armed with a short, sharp dagger.

Virgil was paralyzed at the sight of Logan so bloodied and beaten, one eye swollen shut―or was it gone entirely? Virgil hadn’t the faintest―and hands shaking while he held them up in his defense. Roman merely laughed, a swift kick swiping Logan’s legs out from under him and after losing his balance, was helplessly pinned against the wall. Gentle as a summer sunrise, he caressed the side of Logan’s face with the flat side of his knife, tilting it and drawing blood once he reached underneath his chin.

It hadn’t been Logan, no. At first, Virgil had hoped, seriously hoped, that Logan had jumped Roman and that his lover had managed to snatch his weapon after what must’ve been a frantic fight for survival. But from less than three meters away, Virgil knew that he had been wrong, he could see the fear in his eyes and the merriment in Roman’s.

_He may just be the last person you expect, Virgil darling._

Dee Fujio had been right, that was for sure.

From inside his unresponsive body, Virgil screamed at himself to move, to save Logan. But fate was cruel and Roman even crueler, glancing over his shoulder at Virgil standing there.

“Couldn’t have him taking credit for _my_ work now could I?” he mused, Virgil only just able to hear Logan’s muffled sobs from beneath the slender, skillful hand covering his mouth. Suffocating him, surely, but that wasn’t his style, Virgil knew what was coming; and through tears and terror, he watched as Roman’s dagger―an extension of him, really―caressed Logan’s throat with a gentle swipe.

He was dead before his body even hit the ground, any hope of Roman’s innocence dying with him.

Released from his paralyzation, Virgil found himself with his hands on his knees dry-heaving against the side of the brick building. Behind him, the world was eerily quiet, the same ringing he had heard in his dream drowning out everything else and only silenced by Roman’s soothing words that made about as much sense to him as Latin.

“Get off me,” Virgil snarled, throat rough and sore but fortunately, his empty stomach had nothing to vomit up. “Get the fuck off me, you fucking monster.”

To his surprise, Roman flinched, and it was all the chance Virgil needed to slip out of his grip and sprint through the streets to make his escape.

His heels kicked the back of his thighs as he ran and people gave him looks, but he didn’t care, hardly noticed at all as he did everything he could to keep himself alive. Roman would surely kill him if he was caught, it didn’t matter if they had slept together a few times. That Virgil had been falling in love with him.

Roman was a murderer, he killed Logan, Annie, Polly . . . his mother.

It was impossible to move any faster, heart hammering in his chest as he gasped for air and rounded corner after corner until he was alone. Few lived in this secluded area of Whitechapel and Virgil would allow himself a moment before reassessing. He’d have to move, sell his flat and buy a new one. Maybe Thomas would give him a recommendation to a new reporting agency, hopefully not feel resentful that Virgil was practically throwing away his kindness. But his thoughts were cut short by the arrogant slapping of soles against the earth, loud and wanting Virgil to hear. No surprises.

With nothing he could do, Virgil decided to stand his ground, hands curling into fists by his side when Roman slipped into the light. “That’s no way to treat your beloved now, is it?” Roman chastised while clicking his tongue in disapproval, using the moment of rest to wipe the blood off his knife and tuck it into his slacks.

“Are you going to kill me too?” he breathed, swallowing his fear and forcing himself to sound unafraid. Something flashed in Roman’s eyes, a darkness that the light only just caught.

“Something like that,” he spoke in a whisper, voice encompassing Virgil like a wolf circling its prey. Waiting to pounce.

And pounce he did, Roman pressing Virgil against the wall with that strong, unyielding body of his. There was no room to wail for help or to break free, and any thoughts of escape vanished when Roman pressed their lips together, swallowing Virgil’s words with his tongue.

When he pulled away, he waited until Virgil opened his eyes and was looking at him before speaking, “Don’t scream.”

Virgil’s breath hitched and he was unable to look away as he watched Roman sink to his knees in front of him like there was nothing else in the entire world he would prefer to be doing. As if he could hardly help himself when he pulled down the slacks with his teeth, eyes closed and expression nothing short of wanton.

His undergarments were rolled up into a ball and left somewhere on his flat floor, discarded sometime in the early morning by Roman, so Virgil was completely bare, cock flushed and half-hard already as the cool air brushed against him. They drew in a deep, collective breath, Roman exhaling onto the thick crown and a flood of warmth coursed through Virgil’s body, making his toes curl in anticipation.

“You looked so gorgeous standing there while I killed him, you know,” Roman whispered, mesmerized by the sight before him as hands splattered with dried blood brushed against his hips.

Virgil froze, senses coming back to him. What in the Hell was he doing?

Before he could protest, Roman was kissing his length, traveling to the base of his cock and rubbing his nose again against the hairs there, inhaling his scent before sliding back to the top with parted lips. Virgil was shaking when Roman looked up, smile devious before he swallowed him down completely.

A deep, sultry groan escaped from him, fingers subconsciously slipping into Roman’s hair and tugging at the roots. A moan in turn, _fuck, his voice._

The overcast sky was nothing compared to Virgil’s ever-clouded mind, everything that had happened in his life vanishing under Roman’s touch. He had no mother, no job, nothing, and there had never been anything but Roman, nor would there ever be. Glancing down, he saw the other greedily palming his cock with the heel of his wrist, grinding against it for friction. Getting pleasure from pleasuring Virgil, from being in control.

It was more attractive than anything Virgil had ever experienced and he couldn’t help shoving Roman’s head down onto him and holding him firmly in place for a moment before allowing the other to begin to move. Roman bobbed his head, gore-stained hands gripping Virgil’s bare hips for stability. They moved as one, the sun and moon dancing around one another in perfect harmony until Virgil released, burying himself deep in the other’s throat and spilling, filling him with bittersweet nectar.

Still panting, Roman pulled back with a string of saliva still connecting his lips to Virgil’s cock, shining like morning dew on on a spiderweb. It was beautiful, like nothing else he had ever seen, and it took a few minutes for the clouds to pass and for Virgil to be able to think about anything other than the feeling of Roman on him. “My God,” he breathed, shaking his head in disbelief as Roman lifted his slacks back up to his hips. Then he was on his feet, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He looked powerful, like an untouchable god, and it didn’t matter if Virgil was an inch or two taller than him.

He could never defeat him.

“Told you I wouldn’t kill you,” Roman smiled, licking his plump bottom lip and reaching for Virgil with a delicate hand, fingers soon in his sweat-soaked hair. Then, they curled and slammed his head against the brick wall, flooding the celestial world into a demonic pitch. Life and death merged, Virgil unsure of where he fell on the spectrum, and London’s most infamous serial killer laughed as he caught Virgil’s limp body in his arms.

-

_Who is like God?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!
> 
> first of all a big happy birthday to thomathy because without him, you wouldn’t be reading one of the most explicit things i’ve ever written lol.
> 
> dropped a day early bc of him tho fr love that man to sacrifice my entire day to write this.
> 
> hope you guys enjoyed, one more chapter left and then the epilogue!
> 
> until next time,  
> ronnie


	5. Ruin and Wreck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil Tabram awakes to find out that there is no one left he can trust, and decides to make the best of his situation.

_Gli uomini sono guidati da due impulsi principali, o dall’amore o dalla paura._

-

_Thursday, September 13, 1888 - 7:08 p.m._

A chorus of voices resonated in the pure white light as Virgil began to tear himself away from the grasp of the grim reaper’s spiny fingers and from the lure of an infinite slumber. In those early moments, he thought he was dead—brows furrowing as he tried and failed to gather his bearings, but after a moment, lines manifested into figures and those figures solidified. Dee Fujio and Patton Collins flanked him, sitting to his left and right respectively at a mahogany, rectangular dining table. The rest of the room was extravagantly decorated, but it all paled in comparison to the man seated directly across from him at the head of the table.

Roman’s smile was riveting and ravenous, teeth slightly stained from the blood-red glass of wine in his hand. The sight sent a shiver down Virgil’s spine.

“Ah, Virgil,” Dee purred, noting the other’s open eyes, “awake just in time for dinner.”

Whether it was the sound of the arsonist’s voice, the scent of blood permeating the room, or the sight of his best friend seated at a serial killer’s left hand, Virgil felt primeval instincts he had no control over flood to the surface. But he didn’t move, only irritating his wrists and ankles against the tight restraints he only had just become aware of. Looking down, the ropes refused to budge and he tugged at them again out of frustration.

Patton laughed and when Virgil met his eye, he was unable to mask his emotions―the latter his anger, and the former his amusement. “What? You really didn’t think that _I_ wasn’t a part of this, did you?”

Never in the years of knowing him did Patton’s kind eyes seem so dark, the familiar midday-blue gone. Replaced with the Devil knows what.

“There was a threat on your life . . . he was trying to protect you.”

“His mistake,” Dee snorted, reaching out across the table for Patton’s hand and resting his ungloved fingers over it. They were scarred and otherwise horrific like he had dipped them in boiling water and didn’t feel the pain until the damage was irreversible. “My Patton doesn’t need help, certainly not with me around.”

The affectionate smile Patton sent his lover in turn made him grit his teeth and dig his nails into his palms. Roman looked upon the sight like an amused god, pushing out of his chair with an assertive, “Now that our guest of honor is with us, I believe we should begin the main course.”

Virgil’s formerly empty plate was soon piled with delicacies, vegetables he had never even heard of, let alone tasted. They surrounded the slab of meat in the center of his plate like a green halo, the spinach it rested on emphasizing the vivid color while the stalk-like asparagus brushed against its side like a comforting friend, encouraging Virgil to not be afraid, to trust the dish.

When Roman finished placing the food before him, Virgil looked up, unable to even speak.

“Oh, that’s right,” Roman nodded, tilting his head to the side in thought as he considered the restraints. Surely they both knew that if he was let go, Virgil wouldn’t stop running until he reached the seaside―would swim all the way to North America if necessary.

And Roman, to his credit, didn’t underestimate him, one of the few who truly understood his nature as he instead placed the cloth napkin in Virgil’s lap―hand only briefly brushing over his crotch―before picking up a fork and knife. “You must be used to reciting the Lord’s Prayer before meals,” he began, eyes averted to the course before him as he began to cut the meat into reasonable pieces that Virgil could chew without choking, “but He’s not listening to us so I really never saw the point in it. Do you?”

It was only as Roman raised the fork to Virgil’s mouth did he realize how hungry he was. A lifetime, he had spent an entire lifetime just barely scraping by. There were those worse off than him, sure, but he had never _lived,_ had never enjoyed living. Hell, after his mother’s death, he had hardly even been surviving. But Roman was teeming with life, more alive than anyone Virgil had ever known, and he made him feel like life was a beautiful, beautiful gift.

That it was worth living.

So he parted his lips, allowing Roman to delicately slide the fork between his teeth. Gently, Virgil bit on the piece of meat and Roman retracted the utensil, watching intently as he chewed and chewed and chewed. Swallowed.

“Good?” Roman asked, asking much, much more than just about the quality of the meat.

“I think so, yeah,” Virgil whispered after a moment, nodding in approval as he savored the sweet taste. “I didn’t know you knew how to cook . . . is this lamb?”

Roman cupped his cheek, brushing the face of his thumb over the corner of Virgil’s lips. He doubted there was a crumb there but decidedly didn’t say anything, just allowing himself to look and to be looked at. “Yes, Virgil darling. You have a smart palate.”

A lie, they both knew it wasn’t the loin of a young, underdeveloped sheep, but Virgil didn’t want to think of the alternative―of what that would make him. Especially not when Roman was smiling at him like that, eyes soft and overflowing with something like happiness after waiting patiently for weeks. Instead, he let the other lift the wine glass to his lips and took cautious, careful sips to chase the meat down―not looking away in fear that he would join Logan in being slaughtered and served on a silver platter to tipsy men who thought there was nothing wrong with it.

“Your brother couldn’t join us tonight?” Dee asked casually, hand slipping from Patton’s in order to tend to his own plate. Virgil watched his decisive bite, licking his bottom lip after swallowing. Thoroughly enjoying it, apparently, while Virgil was only just able to bite back his tears.

“He’s not a fan of lamb, surprisingly,” Roman sighed in disappointment, “and with his lover’s untimely death, he has decided to leave for America; can’t stand London without him, I suppose.”

“Whereabouts in the States?” Patton offered, continuing the conversation as Roman lowered the wine glass from Virgil’s lips and gave him a moment before plunging the fork into another piece of meat and guiding it towards his mouth.

“Chicago, I think he said.”

“I heard the crime is high there, higher than Whitechapel.”

“Then he’ll fit right in, won’t he, Mr. Collins?”

The two exchanged a smile before Roman’s attention returned to Virgil, placing the fork down by the side of the plate and handing the knife to Dee. “Now, Virgil darling,” he began, fingers brushing over his left wrist, “I hope I don’t need to tell you this because it saddens me to even think about . . . but if I untie your left hand and you do anything but use it to eat, I will kill you.”

Virgil stiffened, paralyzed when Roman’s hand slipped under his chin and tilted it up. He pressed a soft kiss to his lips, sensual and stirring something inside Virgil that he wished with his entire being he could ignore. He wanted to hate him, despise the man that killed Logan Droit, Polly Nicholas, Annie Chapman―killed his mother. But he couldn’t and when he pulled away, Roman smirked because he knew it too.

Sighing in relief after the rope was untied and discarded somewhere on the hardwood floor, Virgil brought his hand to his mouth and ran his tongue over the red mark that stung more than he cared to admit. Roman slid into his throne at the other side of the table, Virgil becoming aware that it was raised a little higher than the others. With hawklike intensity, he watched Virgil like a prey as he tended to his wound.

“You are left-handed, yes?” Roman inquired, nodding towards his free hand. “It’s not exactly proper to use your knife-hand to eat but you’re among friends, my love. We do not judge, not like He does, so you may eat and drink when you like.”

“How merciful,” Virgil quipped back before he could stop himself, glad that Roman was in a playful mood and laughed at his words.

“Oh I always love a fight, don’t you?” he directed towards Dee, the other humming in agreement. Virgil didn’t want to know what that meant, if, like Roman, Dee Fujio had killed before and managed to slip the noose. Multiple times, even.

“I certainly do,” Patton chimed in with a charismatic laugh, the sound flooding the room with warmth despite the horrors in which he was implying. With as much violence as there was at Whitechapel, Patton could’ve been responsible for any number of deaths or assaults. He wouldn’t doubt anything at this point.

“Regardless, you should eat. This,” Roman said, motioning towards the table in front of them, “is all for you. And if you finish, Mr. Fujio and Mr. Collins brought over a delicious cider cake.”

Virgil lifted up his fork with a shaking hand, taking his time as he let it sink into the meat, nose scrunching at the feeling of it under his control. It was soft, somehow softer than it had been in his mouth, and when he lifted it to his lips, he was so grossly aware of the fact that the trio of felons were watching him, waiting for a reaction.

He decided not to give them one, chewing as he would if it were merely a piece of lamb, and swallowing. He went for the asparagus next, using the side of his fork to cut it into small enough pieces to eat.

The rest of the meal was thoroughly uneventful, tension ignored in favor of the meal before them and conversations led by the beguiling Roman. They talked about anything from a cricket player that took two-hundred and fifty wickets to Parliament politics that Virgil had always been unable to find it in himself to care about―not when there were far more pressing matters at hand like if he would be able to pay his housing bills or afford to eat dinner. But he was listening now and was surprised to find himself nodding along to Dee’s reasoning as to why women should be able to vote.

Roman smiled at him then and Virgil held his gaze, letting Dee’s words slither through one ear and out the other as the rest of the world continued on without them, knowing he wasn’t missing much.

It wasn’t until Patton and Dee stood up did Virgil tense, lowering his eyes and tightening his grip on his fork. Their plates were nearly as clean as they had been before they began, only a lone puddle of red remaining on Patton’s. A stain, one that might never be washed away.

As he started to round the table to rendezvous with his love, Patton was only a tempting few inches away. Perfect.

Patton screamed just as he had in Virgil’s dreams, the tongs of the fork buried deep into the tissue of his hand. The world began to blur as Virgil’s chair was knocked aside, head pounding as it met the floor with a harsh crack. The ceiling spun like a whirlpool, the ocean’s hiss in his ears as Roman forced the cleaver out of Dee’s grip, probably saving Virgil’s life, and shoved the pair out the front door with a string of apologies an acceptable “goodbye”. He closed his eyes, welcoming the darkness and refusing to open them again until the ropes were gone, limbs liberated, and Roman was rushing him out of the dining room.

 _“Tu fais cela très difficile, ma moitié,”_ Roman muttered under his breath, Virgil’s wrist sensitive and helpless under his firm grip. Down the hall, Roman pulled him into a plain-looking bedroom and shut the door, Virgil just able to hear the click of the lock over the deafening pounding of his heart. Alone again, but it was somehow worse this time.

With his back pressed against the door, Virgil turned and scanned his prison from the white sheets to the white walls. Across the room and just beside the soft mattress, cleaner than any he had ever slept in, was a full-length mirror. He didn’t dare look, scared to see the red splashes on his skin. From Logan, Patton, or himself, he hadn’t the faintest, but he knew he wasn't strong enough to see it. Not yet.

A few minutes passed before Virgil’s legs gave out from beneath him, body crumbling and curling around itself. For protection, head between his legs, and knees tucked tight to his chest. What could have been hours, minutes, or days, Virgil lay there unmoving before a gentle hand brushed the back of his neck, stirring him from a sleep he was unaware of having even fallen into. With a sigh, he let Roman help him to his feet and leaned against his side as the other wrapped a supportive arm around his waist.

The tiles of the bathroom floor were cold against the bare soles of his feet, Virgil allowing himself to be lowered onto a stool and for his clothes to be carefully peeled from his body until he was entirely exposed. Entirely at Roman’s mercy.

With his eyes closed, Virgil awaited death, hoping that the other would feel sympathetic enough to make it quick and painless. Strangle him until he was either unconscious or dead, then proceeding to slit his throat―starting from the left and following the natural curve to the right, minimizing blood flow. Then, after cracking a few ribs and taking his pick of Virgil’s internal organs, he would dump his corpse in whatever alleyway would arouse the least amount of suspicion his way.

Wordlessly, Roman turned back to Virgil and picked him up, immediately soothing the other before he could scream. He lowered him into the bathtub and Virgil knew that whatever hopes of a fast, merciful death were out of the question.

He would be lucky to be dead by morning.

A stream of warm water caressed his body, dripping from the strands of his hair and racing down the plains of his chest. Virgil slowly opened his eyes to see Roman crouched down by the side of a tub, ewer in one hand and a cloth in the other. “It’ll be alright, Virgil darling,” he reassured him, cloth running across his body to remove the sweat, grime, and all the pain from his life.

While Virgil had been in his room, Roman had filled the bathtub three-quarters of the way full so that it just reached his chest. The water was already a light pink, turning an even more vibrant color after Roman carefully ran the warm, wet cloth over his cheeks, forehead, and beneath his eyes. He put the ewer down on the edge of the tub then to twist the rag, Virgil unable to help the fact that his gaze flickered towards the porcelain jug. It would be easy, so easy to reach for it, get revenge by taking a swing at his captor’s head. To be free.

But he kept his hands in his lap, only moving them when Roman reached for one and momentarily laced their fingers together, a promise in his touch. _Told you I wouldn’t kill you._

He hadn’t. Far from it, in fact.

Virgil couldn’t help but wonder what the other thought of this, of the intimacy shared between a select few. They had both been with other men before, Roman even getting paid for it, but this was different, much different. It was vulnerable, his life so clearly in Roman’s hands that it was unlike anything else Virgil had ever experienced. But Roman, Roman might’ve felt this way when he was killing, breath hitching as he looked into a pair of terrifying eyes fallen into ruin and wreck that _he_ had created. Polly Nicholas, Annie Chapman, Logan Droit, Martha Tabram . . . when he closed his eyes, Virgil was seeing them as Roman had.

Another splash of water drowned Virgil’s innocence, any thought holding him back as he reemerged and leaned into Roman’s touch gone. “Good,” Virgil thought he heard the other whisper as he allowed himself to rest his head against Roman’s shoulder. Neither of them spoke, not Roman to complain about the other soaking his suit or Virgil with words of hatred or forgiveness. No, there was nothing that needed to be said, not when they understood each other so perfectly.

To Virgil’s surprise, Roman kept his touches chaste, never lingering for too long or teasing the spots he knew turned Virgil on. He remained fully clothed and fully intending to care for the other, to put him first. And when Virgil tilted his head to the side, pressing a gentle kiss to Roman’s neck, he earned a small smile in return.

 _I love you too,_ he replied by closing his eyes, surrendering himself further until he had nothing left to give, just as he knew Roman wanted. The basin’s water was a deep red by the time it ran cold, Virgil entirely exhausted and not bothering to protest as Roman looked him over―promptly ignoring his half-hard erection―and helped him to his feet. He was wrapped in a royal purple towel, leaning into the warmth and letting Roman dry him from his hair to his toes.

Then, Roman guided him towards the white walls of his bedroom, keeping the door unlocked and open as he gently assured, “I’ll be back in a moment after I find you something suitable to wear.”

Gone, Virgil alone once more with his thoughts in the lonely, lonely room.

The mirror caught his attention once more and, hesitantly, the palm of his hand still pressed against his chest to hold his towel in place, he stepped further into the room to gaze at his reflection.

Stopping before it, Virgil flinched at the sight. Weeks before, he had been taken aback by the dark aura smothering him, eyes tarnished and broken beyond repair. But now, he could see, they glimmered with life, twin stars finally aligned with their constellation.

His mother was dead, and yet, he never felt more alive―he had Roman to thank for that.

“Virgil?” he called from the doorway, meeting his gaze in the mirror.

“I want to sleep with you tonight,” Virgil nodded, turning and glancing at the other over his shoulder.

A pause, Roman taking a moment before considering, “And are you going to kill me?”

“Something like that.”

With a laugh, Roman nodded and motioned for the other to follow him out the door, kissing him firmly on the lips when he got there, pressing him against the wall and tugging at the towel because nothing else mattered, nothing at all.

The Whitechapel murderer groaned as Virgil reached for him, bodies folding into one another until there was hardly anything to distinguish between the two of them.

-

_Men are driven by two principal impulses, either by love or by fear._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys,
> 
> oof okay i’ll avoid any hashtag spoilers about the new vid but what i /will/ say is that it did motivate me to write this god. god they really did that wow. (if you haven’t watched it yet, pls do because Wow Wow Wow)
> 
> but yes, this is the penultimate chapter of great and ghastly! we only have the epilogue left to tie up some lose ends, but mac and i have talked about a remus-centered spinoff in chicago where some of you may know is home to a pretty famous, pretty fucked up serial killer by the name h. h. holmes,,,,
> 
> thank you again for reading and the epilogue will probably be up in a few days!
> 
> until next time,  
> ronnie


	6. Epilogue: Nice & Sharp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beginnings and ends merge together as Virgil decides to write a letter to officially announce it.

_Companions, in misery and worse, that is what we all are, and to try to change this substantially avails us nothing._

-

_Monday, September 25, 1888 - 12:00 p.m._

_Dear Boss,_

_I keep on hearing the police have caught me, but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am_

“Down on my whores and I shant quit . . . ripping them till . . . oh, Virgil darling, I don’t know,” Roman huffed, pacing their bedroom with one hand beneath his chin as he considered his words. His lover’s creativity was something Virgil Tabram had learned to appreciate through their weeks of courtship, and it wasn’t often that he asked him for advice, even if he _was_ a journalist.

“How about . . .” Virgil started, glancing up from the elegant, red scrawl on the postcard that would be sent right to the Central News Agency. “How about ‘I am down on my whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled.’”

Roman stopped his pacing, hand falling to his side as he nodded with a grin, “Those words sound like Heaven coming from you.”

“Like Hell,” Virgil corrected with a grin, turning back around to continue writing.

“Like Hell,” Roman repeated, crossing the room and resting his chin on Virgil’s shoulder in order to see the letter. A big moment, not only for Roman—a man that had killed far more than he had been attributed for, the decomposing internal organs of more women that Virgil could count proving just that—but for them as a team. For Roman and Virgil as one. “Keep going.”

“‘Grand work, the last job was,’” Virgil purred, breath hitching as he felt Roman turn his head just so to brush his lips over the sensitive spot just behind his ear. “Because it was, you know.”

“Certainly,” Roman hummed against his skin, left hand slipping down Virgil’s arm until he wrapped his fingers around his wrist, momentarily stopping the writing process. Virgil’s pulse hammered against it. “I gave the lady no time to squeal.”

“Using that,” Virgil said, shaking off the hand as he wrote before gasping when Roman’s teeth tugged slightly at his ear lobe. “Keep going.”

“With my mouth or with my words, Virgil darling?”

“Either.”

His lips retracted, Virgil’s body going cold from the loss of contact before he felt friction between his legs, glancing down to see Roman’s head promptly between them. “We should finish up that letter before I take care of you, don’t you agree?”

Nodding, Virgil swallowed hard before forcing himself to continue, “‘How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games-’ oh, _Roman.”_

His slacks were down to his ankles, cock flushed as Roman casually tugged at it with one hand, lips caressing his inner thigh. But he stopped when Virgil did, palm pressed against the top of his thigh and demonic eyes locked on him. Waiting.

“Oh for fu-” he huffed, trying to compose himself. So, he was being like this, and if Virgil didn’t play along, he would be dead in seconds. The thought made his cock twitch. He kept writing.

“‘I saved some of the proper red stuff in a’ . . . in a what?” Virgil asked, breath short as Roman continued to stroke him, smearing pre-cum on the tip. “Ginger beer bottle? Right, a ‘ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I can’t use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope-’”

“Add a ‘ha ha’ there so they know that we’re funny and not crazy,” Roman instructed, Virgil pausing for a moment to look down at him in confusion. When the other merely raised a brow, looking serious, Virgil just discarded the thought and did as told.

For that, he felt his legs be pushed further apart and felt warm, warm air on his throbbing dick. A shiver went up his pine and Virgil bit the inside of his cheek as he read aloud in a shaky voice, “‘The next job I do I shall clip the lady’s ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn’t you.’ Are you . . . _please, Roman . . . please.”_

“Write it,” Roman said, meeting his eyes just over the tip of his cock. 

So he did, and that was when he began to blow him.

Virgil dropped the pen in favor of reaching for his hair, to tug at the strands and pull him in but once more, Roman stopped. Silver eyes met pitch-black ones, begging but he shook his head. “Write,” he breathed, fingernails digging into Virgil’s thighs.

_Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight._

“Better than ‘we’, they don’t need to know about the two of us,” Virgil reasoned and Roman nodded, bobbing his head and Virgil was near tears with his right hand clenched into a fist on the table.

Roman removed himself, a string of saliva connecting his mouth to Virgil’s length and he almost came there, especially as he said, “Next paragraph say, ‘My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck.’”

Half-listening, Virgil made the second bit its own paragraph, faltering at the signature and looking to Roman for an idea, “So, will it be the ‘Red Fiend’? ‘The Whitechapel Murderer’? The ‘Leather Apron’?”

“I was thinking ‘Roman the Ripper.’”

Virgil paused, staring incredulously at the man kneeling before him. “That . . . that gives away your name, Roman.”

“Sure, but isn’t it terrifying? Roman the Ripper!”

Trying to refrain from visibly reacting, Virgil countered with, “‘The Ripper’ bit is good, though. How about your birth name? Jonathan?”

“‘Jonathan the Ripper?’ Come now, no one even called me that. Before I was Roman, I was Jack.”

“No, you’re right. Well, it could just be ‘the Ripper.’”

Roman sighed, leaning his head against Virgil’s thigh as he drummed his fingers against his knee in thought. “Well, ‘Jack the Ripper’ isn’t horrendous, actually. What do you think?”

“That all this small talk is getting us nowhere,” Virgil muttered, signing the name before either could change it and dropping the pen beside the letter. Roman was still between his knees and gazed upon Virgil with wanton eyes that he knew he couldn’t resist a moment longer, releasing a final breath before he pulled him back onto his cock, forgetting everything else he had ever known.

They would drop the letter off later, it didn’t have to be right then and there. Besides, there were more important matters at hand from the double murder they planned to commit to the more pressing, joined need to get off. The former could wait.

When they fucked, everything good and just in the world was utterly annihilated, teeth clashing together as they tore at every inch of bare skin until they were both in ribbons—completely undone. Roman looked down on him with a sadistic fire in his eyes, the very same he one caught as Logan’s lifeless body crumbled to the ground. It was beautiful and atrocious, but that’s who they were. What they were. Great and ghastly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I end this story, I would like to discuss a few things:
> 
> 1, There is nothing wrong with being fascinated in the morbid. My friend actually sent me a video on this discussing morbid curiosity (warning, it’s graphic and, well, morbid to watch, but i can send the link if you want it). He discusses this far better than I can so I’ll leave it at that.
> 
> However, 2, when reading/writing about serial killers, keep in mind that, often, these men were not geniuses. Most of the time, they were nothing more than deranged, violent men in power targeting an oppressed group (poc, woc, sex workers, and more modernly, lgbt people―ESPECIALLY trans woc) and the police had no incentive to discover the culprit and protect these people. The media perpetuates the romanticism of these serial killers and this fic proceeds to do the same as it is based upon a true story of violence of sex workers.
> 
> 3, As a writer, I want to explore different types of characters, their motives, and learn how to/what to research in order to create a realistic world (especially from a decade/century before I was born). I do not intend to condone or encourage murder, cannibalism, or anything portrayed in any of the fics I write, and although, as my friend told me, I do not need to justify myself for the things I write, I felt like this is an important conversation that more people need to have.
> 
> tl;dr: basically, just don’t kill and/or eat anybody & serial killers aren’t smart but rather the police trying to solve the case are incompetent and that’s why i wrote this lol
> 
> thank you all so much for reading and i appreciate all your feedback! i plan to be putting out more fics in the near future so stay on the lookout!
> 
> until next time,  
> ronnie


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